


Lost Time

by Arati_Mhevet



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27681865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arati_Mhevet/pseuds/Arati_Mhevet
Summary: After 'Defiant'. There's no taste like home.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 29





	Lost Time

**Lost Time**

Garak had gathered from his own sources that something was up. The sight of Dukat marching down the Promenade was more than enough to confirm this; Sisko’s subsequent absence even more so. Still, once order was restored, and the chief players safely returned, he installed himself in his usual corner at Quark’s, faded into the background, and listened to the gossip. Which was how he learned that Sisko had been to Cardassia Prime.

Garak looked down at his _kanar_. He laid his hands flat upon the table, thumb to thumb, forefinger to forefinger, making a diamond-shape around the glass. He stayed like that for a while, taking deep breaths. Once he was calm again, he got up and went back to the shop.

Garak sat in the dark trying to decide what made him angrier: that Sisko had coerced him there the last time, or hadn’t bothered to take him this time. Either way, he was angry, and that propelled him swiftly past the various encryption protocols straight to the relevant intelligence report.

_Defiant. Thomas Riker. Preta Korinas. Orias System._

He recalled Korinas. Efficient, unsentimental. So was she in the ascendance at the Order now? Perhaps she might be more amenable than others to an overture. They’d rather liked each other. But he’d liked Entek too, and he’d killed him – on Sisko’s account. Somehow, he doubted that Korinas would receive his calls.

“Lights.”

Garak went to wash his hands and then sat down again at his bench. Sewing helped him think and he needed to think. Repairs to a beautiful bright blue linen shirt that Dax had torn somehow. Why were people so careless with lovely things? As he threaded his needle, Garak pondered what he had read. What could this mean, that the Order was assembling a fleet? The idea both frightened and exhilarated him. There were good reasons for the ban, of course, although they had always hated it, loathing the resultant dependence on the military. What had shifted? Who had the nerve, the audacity, to make such a move? Korinas? Too unimaginative. Surjak? Complacent. Brun? No, Brun hadn’t been the same without Garak... So what was going on? Not for the first time, Garak railed against his distance from the centre, at the gaps in his knowledge, at his sense of being left far behind… At least Dax had torn along the seam…

“Mister Garak?”

Garak looked up, sharply. Sisko, a box in his hands, was heading through the shop. A handsome man, Sisko, a pleasure to dress. And he liked to push the boundaries. One day, Garak thought, he would test exactly how far Sisko was willing to go.

The commander came to a halt opposite him. “You’re here late.”

Garak went back to stitching. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

Sisko peered at his work. “That looks tricky.”

“Not with practice,” Garak said briskly. “Was there something in particular you wanted, commander?”

“Well, yes,” said Sisko. “You know, I’m just back from Cardassia Prime.”

“So I heard.”

“Oh yes? How did you hear, exactly?”

“How does anyone hear anything on this station? I was sitting in Quark’s and someone was talking too much.”

“And there I was thinking that you’d read my report.”

Garak gave him a straight look. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

“Mm. I’ll assume, Mister Garak, that’s not the case. But in fact, I’d welcome your input.”

Garak, less savagely than he felt, bit at his thread. “And what precisely,” he said, “is in that for me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Will you pay? For my time? For my efforts? Or do you hope to appeal to my better nature? I assure you, commander, I don’t have one.” He decided against starting on the buttons until this ridiculous interview was over. This was a lovely piece, and Dax had done enough damage already. 

“I thought you might be interested,” said Sisko. “That you might have something to add—”

“Did you?” Carefully, Garak put the shirt to one side. “Perhaps if you wanted my input you should have asked me to join you on this excursion. Or threatened me. After all, you were quite happy to force me to come along last time—”

“So that’s what this is about… Well forgive me, Mister Garak, if I didn’t check whether or not our diaries were in alignment before leaving my own damn station!”

Garak slammed his hand down on the tabletop. “You blackmailed me!” he shot back. “You forced me to go to Cardassia against my will and work against the very people that were my best chance of getting home. And now I'm stuck with no allies in a universe full of people who want to destroy me and no way home! Three years, commander! Three _years_!”

His fists were clenched. This time, he was ready for what was coming. For counterattack, accusation, recrimination. For the threat of being thrown out, sent on his way (where to, exactly?). For being told that he should be glad for the little he got. Most of all he was ready to fight, and ready for it to end where it always ended – with someone hitting him, hard.

But the explosion never came. Instead, Sisko lowered his head. He sagged. If Garak hadn’t known better, he might have said the commander was ashamed. “I did suggest that you should come along,” he said quietly. “Dukat wouldn’t have it.”

The charge left the room. All that remained was two tired men and a world of mistrust.

“I see,” said Garak. “I see.”

Sisko put down the box down on the bench. A sweet smell wafted out that made Garak’s heart clench. “These are for you,” said Sisko. ”Everyone there was eating them. My father says that home is where the food is. I thought you might like something. From home.”

Garak reached for his tray of buttons and rifled through. “One day,” he said, “I’ll tell you some of the things my father used to say to me.”

Sisko gave a half-smile, as if the notion that Garak might have a father had not previously occurred to him.

“Send over the report,” said Garak, wearily. “If you really want your tailor’s opinion, he’ll be happy to oblige. At the very least he can remark upon what they’re wearing at the moment.” He looked at the buttons he’d chosen. Blue triangles with rounded edges, and little white flowers etched on. She had some earrings that were similar. He might embroider the cuffs to match too. It would kill some time.

“Dax loves that shirt,” said Sisko. “She’ll love those.”

“That’s the general idea.”

“I’d better leave you to it. Good night, Garak. And thank you.”

Garak kept on working until the buttons were done and his temper improved. The embroidery, he decided, was best left until tomorrow when he would not make foolish mistakes. He locked up the shop and took the box back to his quarters. He wanted to be sure he was alone when he looked inside.

Half-a-dozen _ikri_ buns. Yes, he thought faintly, everyone would have been eating these. Like the doughnuts O’Brien devoured, or the _moba_ jam pastries that Kira loved, or whatever gruesome confection Quark and Rom and Nog consumed to bring back the scent, the taste, the memory of home. He took one out, and ate it greedily, filling his mouth, licking the sugar from his fingers. The second he ate with more ceremony, taking the time to heat it, and the scent of warm bread filling the room transported him – to his home, his city… He remembered hot days and warm nights; the heavy perfume of _ithian_ blossom; pale pink sunrises over the hills; lamplit evenings by a slow brown river; the bitterness of _gelat_ on the tongue; alleys and walkways filled with people who looked like him and sounded like him, who ate the same foods and knew the same jokes and loved their home the way he did.

That left four more. He considered sharing them with Bashir, but dismissed the idea. Too much explanation would be required, too much might be revealed, and then there was the knowledge – the aching, painful knowledge – that drawing too close to this man was as good as admitting that he was never going back. That his time was over, and he was forever tailor, not Order.

Instead he eked them out. Stored them. Savoured them. Ate a piece when the day had been too cold, too bright, too dull, too wearying. When home seemed entirely out of reach. The last he didn’t get to eat at all. It was in the shop when he torched it, the day his father sent someone to kill him.

* * *

_18 th November 2020_

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine an _ikri_ bun as rather like a [Fitzbillies chelsea bun](https://www.fitzbillies.com/products/chelsea-buns-box-of-four), with more sugar. As to how Garak keeps them, he has a mini fridge-freezer at the back of the shop, where he also keeps his miniatures.


End file.
